Well, he hasn't knocked over any liquor stores yet...

It seems the universal question asked about a new baby is, "Is he a good baby?" It's mostly asked by women from generations older than mine, so I don't really have any frame of reference for what they mean. Good? He's not yet two weeks old. He doesn't do anything other than eat or sleep. He doesn't mouth off, sneak out past curfew or break the speed limit when he drives. But pegging him as categorically good? I'm reserving judgment for now.

It took me a while to realize that what people were really asking was "Does he sleep?" To this I want to answer, "Duh... No. He's an eight- (now nine-) pound breastfed baby... the best I get is three, maybe four hours at a stretch if I'm very lucky." Instead, though, I answer yes, he does sleep fairly well for us, and leave it at that. But, a good baby? It's not like he wakes me up out of spite.

The Duck, as he's been christened by his older brother*, is by all accounts easier than his brother was at this age. No matter how it's calculated, at two weeks actual age or two weeks adjusted age, the Monkeyboy was... different. I know that goes without saying, but I don't want to attach any negative connotations to that difference. With the Monkey, we'd never had a child before and so we didn't know any different, but those first few months with M were, in retrospect, a challenge: A NICU stay which entailed driving back and forth to the hospital daily (more than an hour from our house), a biliblanket for a week at home after discharge, daily hospital visits to have heel sticks to check bilirubin levels, frequent pediatrician visits, various breastfeeding challenges, monthly RSV shots... the list goes on. However, to me, that was motherhood.

This time, however, we roomed in. I was able to breastfeed almost immediately after birth. The baby and I were discharged together (imagine!) two days after birth. Our home was prepared to receive a baby and we've settled in comfortably. Other than the usual new-baby stuff -- I had totally forgotten that a breastfed baby poops about once an hour -- it's been an emotionally relaxed, if physically tiring, few weeks. We've been peacefully busy.

I know I promised a birth story, and it is coming.


*The Hubster asked Monkeyboy, "If you're a monkey, what animal is your brother?" The Monkey continually pronounces his brother to be a duck. So there you go.

Earthside

He's here. Finally.

Born on 5/29/08 at 11:23 a.m., weighing 8 pounds, 1 ounce*, 20 1/2 inches long. We still don't have a name for him (can't agree).




Details of the birth will come soon, once we get home and I stop feeling like I've been hit by a truck.

*Mama instinct was right.

Easy to do

Help Allison have a new "Best Day Ever" (on her Wordpress stats) by visiting her today at Our Own Creation. For the full background on why you should do this, go here and here. All the visits have to be on the same day to change her statistics. Also, please stop by Sweet Zoe (same reason).

It's just a couple of clicks... so easy to do.

Note: This was scheduled to auto-post in advance.

Liveblogging from Labor and Delivery

Went to my appointment today and my doctor decided to induce me tonight. As in: They started Pitocin at 6:45 p.m. Yikes!

Details to follow.

Irony, thy name is Baby

I just keep thinking, "Are you kidding me?"

Today is my due date. A great deal of time and energy has been spent over the past nine months to keep this baby inside when he had no intention of going anywhere. I've had enough doctor's appointments to use up nearly fifteen sick days (and most of those were taken as half days), six ultrasounds, extra cultures and bloodwork run (and related conditions treated), weekly cervical checks for the last two months, two fFN tests; all of this to be sure this baby stayed put long enough to be full term and here we are... the fullest of full term. With no progress to show for it. It seems that this baby is digging in his heels and staying put.

One way or another, this baby will be here sometime in the next two weeks. Just how he gets from the inside to the outside is still to be determined. Ironic, is it not? The moderate level of work and planning involved in getting a baby to grow inside me in the first place which lead to a more serious level of work and planning involved in keeping that baby inside me for the duration which now leads to an as yet unknown amount of work and planning involved in figuring out how to get the the baby out of me. The first two seem in direct opposition to the third. They shouldn't all be that difficult.

Go ahead... ask me about my giant baby

Today I had another ultrasound to estimate fetal weight. The rumors of a giant baby were not confirmed, yet not wholly disproved either.

The tech was a woman about my age who I haven't had before (and I've had a lot of ultrasounds at this imaging office). As we got settled and set up, she reviewed my information with me and told me that Dr. Maestro delivered the youngest two of her three sons (both induced) and that she loved our doctor. I asked her if she didn't mind sharing the details of her inductions with me. She said they were both the same, both textbook and both easy. She thinks she was only about a centimeter dilated when she went in each time. Pitocin was started around nine in the morning, he broke her water around noon and her boys were delivered around four or five in the afternoon.

She took a long time taking measurements and shared information about what she could see with us, which was nice. As she took measurements, both the Hubster and I tried to see the gestational age estimates that pop up on the screen. They all seemed to be in the 39-40 weeks range; nothing extraordinarily large. The largest measurement was the abdominal circumference which was 40 weeks and a few days (I can't remember; maybe two or three days). The head measured at just under 40 weeks (39 weeks and 4 or 5 days?); the femurs also.

The upshot? Using abdominal circumference, femur length and head circumference, the baby's current weight is estimated to be 8 pounds 10 ounces. "Plus or minus half a pound," the tech stressed.

This is good news. My gut has been telling me that this is about an eight pound baby, but honestly couldn't be much more. I just don't look it. Minus half a pound puts the baby at 8 pounds 2 ounces right now, which makes sense to me. The Monkeyboy was 8 pounds 3 ounces at his due date, which is about what I had estimated all along (that he'd be an eight pound baby). This estimate fits right in line with that. Based on that estimate, the baby is in the 74th percentile, which is also in the range where the Monkeyboy usually is. (At the last ultrasound, the baby was estimated to be in the 86th percentile!)

Of course, the Hubster was quick to point out that plus half a pound would put the baby at 9 pounds 2 ounces, which is about where they estimated at the previous ultrasound that the baby would be now. I told him we will not talk of such things.

In the past few days my confidence in my doctor has been lagging. I've been wondering why he hasn't tried to ripen my cervix with prostaglandins and induce me if he's so worried about this baby's size. Then, over the weekend, I learned more details on the birth story of an acquaintance of mine, of which I knew only the bare minimum before (different doctor and hospital than mine, I should note): induction, pushing for hours, two types of suction used, baby stuck in birth canal, baby's heart rate dropping, baby pushed back up and emergency c-section performed as baby coded, baby revived but suffered repeated seizures that required a NICU stay of a month and have lead to developmental issues over a year later.

This was more than a little bit on my mind over the days that followed. Yesterday OldChristine talked me down, reminding me of why we love and trust our doctor. "He wouldn't let anything like that happen." And just like that, I felt my confidence return. Silly, I know, but every woman I know who is a patient thinks the world of this man and his skills. And that speaks to something.

Tomorrow I go back for another OB appointment. I'm trying to keep expectations low, as I usually do, so I'm not sorely disappointed at my lack of progress. (But I'll admit, there's been a little clandestine crying after appointments these past few weeks). I'm hoping that tomorrow we can formulate some plan as to what we'll do over the next two weeks. Whether I progress or not, something's gotta give. I'd like to know what possibilities I'm looking at, if only so I can process them mentally and emotionally before I come to them physically.

At the end of my ultrasound session today, I thanked the tech for sharing the details of her births with me and told her I'm always glad to meet someone who thinks Dr. Maestro is as great as I do, because it confirms what I feel. "He's fantastic," she told me. "You're in good hands."

Lesson Learned #3

I learned this when I had the Monkeyboy: You don't need a full and complete nursery, with all the new gadgets, to care for a baby. Minimum requirements are: Some place for the baby to sleep (any secure, flat surface will do, but a selection of baby carriers are a great supplement), some type of diapers (your choice: cloth or disposable), and breasts. Really... that's it.

Nonetheless, having already experienced the frantic "we're-not-ready" feeling of a pre-term birth, I made sure that we did adequate preparations for this baby well in advance of my due date. (Which is tomorrow, for those that haven't noticed).

We are ready for this baby: Our bags have been packed since the beginning of April and most of that luggage spends every day riding around in my car (I'm really tired of feeling like the Clampetts every time we venture more than 30 minutes from home); baby clothes are washed and ready; baby "equipment" that was loaned out has been retrieved; arrangements have been made for the Monkey to spend time with his Gram while we make him a big brother (I'd like it noted that I'm being very generous with that "we."); even at work I had two months worth of information prepared to enable a substitute to be me (with the last day of school only three days away, that's all gone to waste). There are a few loose ends to tie up, but overall, we're ready.

So what is he waiting for?

Consolation Prize

When we were trying to conceive the first time (2003-2005), it seemed like everyone I knew got pregnant. Everyone except me. I finally started keeping track of all the pregnant women I knew. Somewhere on my computer is a Word file that lists, in chronological order, the (almost 20) women that I knew who got pregnant before me during that time period. Two women on that list managed to get pregnant twice during that time. Adding further insult is that another two of these "women" were (1) one of my eighth grade students and (2) my mother-in-law's dog. When I reached the point that I couldn't take just one more instance of someone else getting pregnant, I told the Hubster that I needed something to help me look forward to the pregnancy announcements of friends, acquaintances and coworkers.

This was the inspiration for the "Consolation Prize." I told the Hubster that, from that point forward, whenever another woman who we knew announced she was pregnant, he needed to buy me a present. That way, I'd look forward to the pregnancy of others, because it would bring me something, too.

Don't you know, before I was able to collect a single consolation prize, I got a positive pregnancy test. When I woke the Hubster up that Monday morning in April 2005 to show him the test, his exact words were, "Wow... Now you owe me a present."

As of today, I'm 39 weeks 4 days pregnant. Although this isn't anything that would in an average pregnancy cause concern, when I throw my uncooperative cervix and (possibly) giant baby into the mix, the looming of my due date is causing me considerable stress. And there's been nothing going on to indicate that, well, anything is going on.

But, as my due date is just three days away, I'm forming a new consolation prize plan... to commence in four days.

Maintaining the Status Quo

Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Zip. Zero progress. No change. Same as before. All systems a no go.

Dr. Maestro's opening line this week: "Every time the phone rang over the weekend, I was sure it would be you. I even had one Jen call, but it was another patient named Jen." And no one is more sorry that I've disappointed him than I am.

In related news, I asked the doc about the pain I've been having for the last week that's over my right ribs in front (it's different from the right side rib pain that I knew was the baby pushing, since I had the same pain with the Monkey). This pain starts as a tingling and works its way up to burning. Or, as my doctor suggested, tearing. Yes, that's right: tearing. It's the muscle tearing itself away from my ribs as the baby is stretching for room. Dr. Maestro said he had one patient whose muscle was so strong it held onto the rib and instead of separating from the bone, her rib broke. The possibilities just get better and better.

The rest of my appointment was hardly noteworthy. My weight is at 158 1/4, which is up 33 1/4 pounds overall (up about 1/2 a pound from last week, if I recall correctly), the baby's heartrate was 140, my urine was "negative and negative" of what they look for (I'm thinking they look for the protein that would indicate pre-e and then whatever would indicate a UTI). In fact, the nurse commented that the sample was very clear and the PA said -- I'm not kidding either -- "beautiful urine sample... they've been beautiful the whole time." What can I say? I have beautiful pee. I suppose I can be thankful that at least I've got that going for me.

Next week I have an ultrasound scheduled on Tuesday at 39 weeks 6 days to estimate fetal weight (again) and then an OB appointment on Wednesday at 40 weeks, where my doc will have the ultrasound results and presumably we'll talk more about my giant baby. He also said he'd start non-stress tests next week.

Unless I go into labor before then. Which I'm not expecting.

Two-fer Tuesday (Lyrically Speaking)

He's going the distance
He's going for speed
She's all alone (all alone)
in her time of need

-- Cake, "He's Going the Distance"

Or, if you prefer...

The waiting is the hardest part
Every day you get one more yard
You take it on faith, you take it to the heart
The waiting is the hardest part

-- Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, "The Waiting"

Single Digit Countdown

As of today, there are only nine days left until my due date. Last night I had several hours of real contractions, but they were randomly spaced and, although they did actually hurt, there were no real show stoppers among them. A persistent backache is my constant companion. I still refuse to believe that any of it means anything productive.

I start my days in discomfort and end them in actual pain. Most of the pain comes from the baby himself -- he'd got his feet wedged under my ribs on my right side (and he seems to be out of room everywhere else, too). By afternoon I can't get any relief, even while stretching. Other times I wonder where he got the grapefruit spoon* he's using on my cervix to try to tunnel his way out. Backache, hip pain, cramps, round ligament pain, contractions... none of it so far has produced even the slightest evidence of progress. What I wouldn't give to see my mucus plug. I cling to the baby's 0 station as my only hope. We'll call it my "Obi-Wan Kenobi." Not that it's done much for me in the past few weeks, but it's all I've got.

The phone calls have started; people assuming that I must have had the baby and just forgot to tell them. So far I've been good natured about it; when people call, I laugh along with them. My history of a previous pre-term birth has faked us all out. I wonder how long it will be until my good humor runs out.

*Can you believe there's a Wikipedia entry for grapefruit spoon? I was beyond surprised.

Eviction Notice

Effective May 14, 2008, tenant has two weeks in which he can both gather his belongings and promptly vacate the premises. He may choose to wait until June 11, 2008 (thirty days) after which he will be physically removed from the property.

Tenant is being evicted due to breech of contract and destruction of property. Expansions to the front of the house only, within reasonable limits,* were discussed. Not only have these limits been exceeded, but additions to the back of the house were also made. Remodeling and gutting of the home was never approved, nor was changing the initial layout and base structure. Due to property damage, there are now leaks in both the upper and lower levels of the home. In addition, the landlord has received numerous complaints about nightly disturbances. Any further problems will result in immediate and forceful removal.

Owner (A.K.A Mommy)

*I found a stretch mark beside my belly button last night. Since I was able to escape them during my last pregnancy, I was praying for the same this time. Apparently this will not be the case this time, no thanks to Mr. LoCoFiPo (long closed firm & posterior), the giant baby who plans on never leaving my body.

Move along folks... nothing to see here

Just like I thought; no change from last week.

Lesson Learned #2

Just like a watched pot never boils, a watched cervix never dilates.

My 38 week appointment is later today, but I'm not holding out much hope that there's been any progress since last week. I have been having cramping and lower back pain since Sunday, but I'm determined not to get my hopes up. What I'm focusing on instead is the unlikeliness that this really could be a nine pound baby. Instead, I've decided that it will be somewhere in the seven to eight pound range. (Yeah... like I really get to decide these things). A baby of that size makes sense to me, based mostly on my size (both pre-pregnancy and currently) and on Monkeyboy's size. As the Hubster always likes to proclaim about our son, "50-75th percentile for height and weight, but 90th percentile in head circumference!" In his family, the boys just have big melon heads as kids. And it's not the head that's usually the problem when it comes to birthing a large baby (although it can be), it's the shoulders.

Estimated weights for fetuses are based partly on ultrasound measurements of head circumference (also on abdominal circumference and femur length). But there are a range of other factors involved in assessing the chance of a large baby. According to this article, after gestational age (at 40 weeks, there's a 12.3% chance of macrosomia) and maternal race (Caucasian babies tend to be larger), these "major parental, environmental, and pregnancy-specific determinants of birth weight" should be used to estimate the chance for macrosomia:

• Maternal Height. "Family pedigree studies have shown that, on average, "big people have big babies and small people have small ones." I'm 5'2." Or, as I like to say: I'm not short; I'm built low to the ground for speed and accuracy.
  
• Maternal Obesity. "...the more a mother weighs, the larger her fetus is likely to be." I was a healthy weight and BMI before pregnancy.
  
• Maternal Pregnancy Weight Gain. "...the greater the weight gain is, the larger the fetus is likely to be." I've gained only 32 pounds so far... within the 25-35 pounds recommended weight gain. Hey, it's not that I haven't tried to gain more, what with my Oreo obsession and all.
  
• Parity. "At term, a fetus typically gains 0.2-0.5 g/day for each increase of 1 in maternal parity." So I can expect this baby to be a little bigger than the Monkeyboy. (But by this same reasoning, shouldn't Michelle Duggar be giving birth to about a fifty-pound baby next New Year's Day?)
  
• Fetal Sex. "On average, male fetuses weigh more than females by 136 g (5 oz) at term." Okay, so boys are bigger. What.ever.
  
• Ambient Altitude. "...an increase in altitude of 1000 m accounts for a reduction in term birth weight of 102-145 g." I knew we should've moved to Tibet for this pregnancy.
  
• Maternal Hemoglobin Concentration. I'm not really sure what this is. There seems to be some connection between altitude and blood thickness. "The relationship between birth weight and circulating maternal hemoglobin concentration is inverse, such that for each 1.0-g/dL increase in maternal hemoglobin concentration, term birth weight is reduced by 89 g." I know that because of my anemia, my hemoglobin is low. Does this mean anemia can cause bigger babies? Or is only the opposite true (that high hemoglobin causes smaller babies)?
  
• Paternal Height. "Offspring of fathers with heights 2 SDs above or below the mean have a term birth weight that is increased or decreased by 125 g, respectively." The Hubster is 6'4", which is 76 inches. The mean height for an American male is 5'10" (70 inches). The standard deviation is 3" (actually, I think it's 2.8"). So, the Hubster is at least two standard deviations above average height.
  
• Cigarette Smoking. "A mother who smokes 1 pack per day will likely have a baby with a mean birth weight reduction of 240-360 g at term." I don't. Blech. Although, if I knew it would have helped in this situation, I might have listened to Troy McClure's self-help tape "Smoke Yourself Thin."
  
• Glucose Tolerance. "Uncontrolled maternal diabetes mellitus is commonly associated with excessive fetal weight." Not something I have to worry about, thankfully.
  

What I have going for me: Maternal height, maternal weight, and pregnancy weight gain. What I have working against me: Paternal height, male baby, gestational age > 37 weeks, Caucasian, and parity. Non-factors: Altitude, cigarette smoking, glucose tolerance, hemoglobin concentration (as far as I can tell).

What does all this mean? Who the hell knows. The same article has some information on working all of this into a complex equation to determine range of error in fetal birthweight prediction for a specific case. But as I always tell my students, I became a history teacher because it was my understanding there would be no math.

I know that I can handle birthing a seven to eight pound baby. Well, as much as I really know anything. This is all part of my think-positive, plan-of-no-plan. I'll let you know how it all works out for me.

Pregnancy: One Big Blonde Moment*

Another game of "Guess Who?": Guess who bought dog food instead of cat food (by not looking at the bag closely enough) and then fed it to the cats for a week before noticing? Oh yeah, I'm lowering the bar for pet owners everywhere.

*I can say this, because I was blonde by the grace of nature as a child (and sometimes blonde by the grace of my hair stylist as an adult).

Men seldom make passes at girls who... are 37 weeks pregnant*

Your body retains extra fluid throughout pregnancy. This causes the cornea (the outer layer of your eye) to get about 3 percent thicker, a change that may become apparent by the 10^th week of pregnancy and persist until about six weeks after delivery. Intraocular pressure (pressure of fluid within your eyeball) decreases about 10 percent during pregnancy. These two events, in combination, may cause slightly blurred vision.

If you wear contact lenses, particularly hard lenses, you may find them uncomfortable because of these changes.

-- Mayo Clinic Complete Book of Pregnancy and Baby's First Year

Guess who hasn't been able to wear her contacts (which, coincidentally, are hard lenses) since Ski Weekend, back in February? Cute as I may be with four eyes, my patience with this, like so many things, is wearing thin.


*Dorothy Parker. Gotta give a girl her props. (And she actually wrote "Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses.")

Patience, Grasshopper

The baby is at 0 station now. And that's it for progress.

Otherwise, I'm still long, close, firm and posterior. I'm at 157 pounds, so that's just under a pound gained from last week (32 pounds overall). The baby's heartrate was 144. ("Best beat I've heard all day," the doc said. I was tempted to ask if he thought he could dance to it.)

When Dr. Maestro walked into the exam room, his opening line yesterday was, "I thought you were supposed to have gone into pre-term labor by now." Funny guy. He should see about joining Lewis Black (I love Lewis Black) on tour. We talked about induction, but obviously I'm not inducible. He said he'd only give me a Bishop's Score of 2 (a -1 station and a 0 station have the same score!) and he won't try to induce unless it's at least 6.* He won't even give me one measly point for having a previous vaginal birth. Before I left, he did say if he had any excuse to induce, he would. So, as usual, I am to call him if I have spotting or a leakage of fluid or anything. Otherwise? I got a cheery "See you next week!"

I'm trying to be very Zen about the whole thing (or, I guess if we're using Kung Fu references, I might want to specify Shaolin Buddhist, but Shaolin is a Ch'an, or Zen, Temple, so to my Western mind, same difference.). I'm trying to practice patience. This is the same lesson I had to learn while trying to conceive; when it comes to babies, there is no planning. I have to stop trying to control every aspect of this experience.

I'm trying to come up with some affirmations to repeat to myself when I start trying to control or plan this birth. This baby will come when it's ready to come. I've done this before and I can do it again. I'm only 37 weeks; why rush things? I need a good mantra. I know mantras are really more of a Hindu thing, but, hey... if I'm stealing from Eastern religions, I might as well take as much as I can get.

But I did make a couple of concessions to my new plan-of-no-planning. The first was to start drinking some red raspberry leaf tea, which won't necessarily make me inducible, but might help me push out a giant baby. I know, I know... I'm grasping at straws. You'll see: Bigger straws are to come.

The second concession was to ask for help from my faith-leaning friends, asking for prayers. This is a big step for an non-theist, although I do believe in the power of positive thinking and visualization. Last week I mentioned the need to be inducible to my sort of generic Christian friends (especially the one who prayed for me to get pregnant and then -- hey! -- that month I did! and then she prayed for the baby to be healthy at the amnio and -- hey! -- he was!) and asked for their "help." Yesterday I upped the ante, recalling the friends from last week and bringing in the big guns. I called my stepmother and asked her to put in a word with her mother. Two important characteristics about my step grandmother: 1) She's a devout Italian catholic, so she's the closest I can get to a direct line to the Pope and 2) she died two years ago (at 93 years old), so she might actually know the Catholic god now. Like personally. I also called my oldest friend in the whole wide world (oldest in the sense that we've known each other since we were about two years old). Her religious creds: daughter of a rabbi who is the son of a famous rabbi (wish I could tell you who, but since I keep this blog is anonymous, I don't want anything pointing back to me. Suffice it to say, there are streets and the like named after him and the family in Israel) and she's studying to be a rabbi herself. My thought was -- before I went all Grasshopper -- hey, my doctor is Jewish, maybe I need Jewish prayers in order for them to work. Oh, yeah. Rational thoughts from the non-believer. Everyone was very supportive of my new-found insanity and offered their help.

My biggest concern is really that my fears will impede the success of this birth (the power of negative thinking, in this case). I'm incredibly worried that I won't be able to push a large baby through my pelvis or that if I do somehow manage, I'll end up with a fourth degree tear. I know that thinking like this is counterproductive.

So, I need to be patient and I need to be positive. Easier said than done. But I'm working on it. I keep hearing the master's voice saying, "Snatch the pebble from my hand."


*Since many docs won't induce until a score of 8 or 9, I've at least got this going in my favor.

The Great Skeet Shoot*

In our house, the process of choosing a baby name goes through several painful and protracted phases.

First, we pass through The Zorro Phase. This is where the Hubster, confident that he has many, many months to settle on a name, entertains himself by suggesting clearly outrageous and inappropriate names (Like Zorro. Or Gandalf. Or D'Artagnan. Or Clytemnestra, if it was a girl.) in an attempt to be funny.

This go-round, the Hubster has come up with a whole new category of suggestions for the Zorro Phase: Names that sound like other, more familiar names. Why? For the sake of confusion, and the hi-jinks that therefore ensue, I am only to guess. For example, Kebin. As in, "Kevin?" "No... Kebin." Other ideas he thought were "worth" mentioning? Stege (for Steve) and Marp (for Mark). Oh, the laughter... **

When we finally get down to business, the longest phase is the Close, but No Cigar Phase, where is becomes tortuously evident that we watch too much TV, see too many movies, read too many books and know too many people.

"How about Arvin?" one of us might suggest. The response, "You mean like Arvin Sloane?"
"Nelson?" "You mean as in, 'ha-ha!' "
"Isaac?" "Like the bartender on The Love Boat?"
"Amos?" "Oh, as in: and Andy?"

An additional element to this phase is that there's nothing quite like being a teacher to have had many a nice name ruined forever for you. Names that actually were previously on my list as favorites have been banned forever, the association with a student that was too (insert negative quality/ies here) burned eternally into my mind. If a teacher ever tells you, "Your child didn't poison the name," take it as a compliment.

It is at this point that we first crack open the baby name books. Apparently, the higher the number of names on the cover, the more copies you sell. I know it works, because the last time we bought a book, we were torn between two and the Hubster told me, "Just buy the one that has more names." (The joke was on him, because it was not a good book.)

My recommendations (stick with these and you'll do fine):

• The Baby Name Wizard: A Magical Method for Finding the Perfect Name for Your Baby
• Beyond Jennifer and Jason, Madison and Montana: What to Name Your Baby Now
• An oldy, but a goody: The Very Best Baby Name Book in the Whole Wide World (45,000 Baby Names)

One of the Hubster's favorites is From Aaron to Zoe (15,000 Baby Names), not because it has exceptionally good suggestions, but that each suggestion is followed by a list of (arguably) notable people that have been christened as such. For example, the name Sam is followed by this familiar and helpful association: "Sam Patch: daredevil; dived from cliffs, often with bear." This book is more useful for its entertainment value than as a tool for helping parents choose a name.

The terrible book which was chosen, as mentioned above, by the poor technique of "the more names, the better" is The Complete Book of Baby Names (100,001+ Baby Names). My problem with the book is twofold. First of all, the origin of each name is given, with many of the the origins listed as "Native American." Maybe I wouldn't take so much offense at this if I didn't spend the better part of a unit each fall explaining to my kiddos that Native Americans do not comprise a single cultural group, but instead are thousands of cultural groups spread out across two continents and an entire hemisphere. It makes as much sense as classifying something as "African" or "Asian" in origin. Those are continents, not cultural groups or areas. By classifying something as such, you've done no more than help someone narrow down to a vast region of the world where something came from, and have told them little else. The other issue that I have with this book is that many names seem to be simply made-up. And then given the classification or origin of "American." Most of these include spelling variations like "Sundae." Really? You're really going to suggest that I name my child after a Da.iry Queen dessert? Or how about Starbuck, who those of us that grew up in the seventies will remember as a character on the original (single-season) Battlestar Galactica TV series (and possibly the remake, which I haven't seen)? This book gives the meaning of the name as "an astronaut." Again... really?

Next comes The Great Skeet Shoot Phase. This is where one of us throws out a name and the other rejects it. For no other reason than "I don't like it." If, while perusing the baby name books, I am to say "What about..." I'm often cut off by the Hubster who says, "Wait." and then pretends to site a shotgun. "Pull!" he'll call, predicting that this name, like its predecessors, will be shot down. At this point one or both of us have reached the frustration level, and we usually agree to table the discussion for a set period of time.

In the case of the Monkeyboy, the tabling period ends with The "Oh, shit! The baby is two days old -- six weeks early -- and still doesn't have a name Phase. Let me tell you, having NICU nurses ask you repeatedly, "Does this baby have a name yet?" will light a serious fire under your ass. Luckily, we did have some names in mind that we agreed upon, although we hadn't fully discussed it and nailed it down, so we weren't really as panic-stricken and flying-by-the-seat-of-our-pants as one might think.

This go-round, we're still processing. Last night we re-opened the discussion and have decided that the time has come to nail down a name. We've reached the It's Crunch Time Phase.

I decided last night that I'd rather write another graduate thesis than name another male child.

For further inspiration, I suggest the scene from Knocked Up (it might be in the DVD extras), where the friends of the male lead suggest celebrity-style baby names. My personal favorite: Pontius Pearslice.

Another good resource is the Oh-no-you-di'int-style website: Baby's Named a Bad, Bad Thing.

*I know that the use of the direction "Pull!" refers more to trap shooting than skeet shooting, but in American iconography, the term "Skeet" just has more, you know, oomph.
**I should note that he actually knows someone with one of these names.

Are you ready to ruuumble?

I spoke to one of my friends who not only is a doctor herself, but was induced a couple of years ago with her second pregnancy, her son, due to macrosomia. At her 33 week ultrasound, her son's head was measuring 40 weeks. When he was born at 38 weeks, he was nine pounds. (Her husband had been eleven pounds when he had been born.)

I asked her about her induction, especially about whether she was dilated and effaced going in. It was a pretty standard induction; she went in the night before and they used prostaglandin gel to soften her cervix, then induced her the next day with pitocin. She said if she was dilated at all before going to the hospital, it was a fingertip at most.

When I mentioned the comment my OB had made regarding inducing me "if I was inducible," she said he may have meant if the baby's lungs were developed. I totally forgot that she had an amnio to check for fetal lung development before her induction. I wonder if that's what my doc means by "inducible;" not so much my cervix, but the baby's lungs. Tomorrow is my 37 week appointment. Since my doc mentioned inducing at 38 weeks, I'm sure we'll discuss the options.

On a related note, I discussed this with my mother-in-law this weekend, who told me that the Hubster was 7 pounds 14 ounces at birth (an ounce less than I previously thought). What I didn't know was that she was induced two weeks early with him, because she was RH negative and the RH factor "was starting to affect his blood." (Although how they knew this in 1969 I'm not sure). So he was almost eight pounds at 38 weeks. Possibly a nine pounder if he'd gone to term. That information only served to confirm what the last ultrasound predicted, as far as I'm concerned.

Or at least one of those cool Sky-Pad apartments like the Jetsons

This morning as he climbed into the shower before work, the Hubster said to me, "I can accept not having flying cars and vacations on the moon and all the other predictions from fifty years ago, but you'd think by now we'd have robots to do our jobs for us so we could sleep in."